


Layers

by Afflitto



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Prumano - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afflitto/pseuds/Afflitto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Horizon, they called it.  Lovino only scoffed, scuffing his shoe across the material.  As caked with mud and dirt as it was, seeing down into the darkness that contained the crumbling, abandoned streets of Rome—houses and fountains still intact—was like staring through murky water.  A museum within a city, empty and buried under layers, like something shoved into storage to collect dust.  If anything, it reminded Lovino of Hisarlik, a city built on the ruins of layers of fallen cities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> I could not think of a good title to save my life.
> 
> My prumano secret santa for LanaS, prompt being a serendipitous meeting between Gil and Lovi. I know you said no angst, so I tried to keep this bittersweet at worst. I like the the prompt was vague enough to allow for creativity, but I also really hope that I took it in a direction that you like. I sort of took a risk for a type of story I never write. Anyway, Happy Christmas/Winter to you! Thank you for the challenge and awesome prompts!

I

 “Where does one even find a Van Gogh in displayable condition in this day and age?”  The museum curator leaned one elbow against the rail descending the steps into what they considered the ‘basement’ of the museum.  Hollow spotlights illuminated faded patches where the walls had been stripped of paintings.

Where Marcia saw potential storage, Lovino saw only potential.

“I know a guy,” Lovino said, shrugging.  His eyes raked the dusty room, noting where scuff marks marred the floors and shadows sagged into the corners.  They fell on his boss again.

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Marcia shook her head, her feet already turned toward the door.  Bland hair tugged free from a tight bun after a long day of meetings.  Fatigue sank wrinkles into an otherwise young face.  “Well, I’ll trust you with this, then, if you’re so adamant about it.  God knows there’s a premium of space in a world with centuries of art, so I can maybe give it to you a few weeks tops unless it just does outstandingly well.”

Lovino shifted from foot to foot.  Maybe he should have dressed nicer.  A button down and pressed slacks seemed underdressed compared to the curator’s business jacket and pencil skirt—and certainly out of place among the marble floors and gilded golden frames highlighting the exhibits in the main museum. 

“These were classics,” Lovino said.  “It’s not like art loses its meaning just because it’s been sitting around in storage.  Shi—I mean, stuff like Van Gogh used to be worth fortunes.”

“Learned that in art history, did you?” Marcia asked with a sigh.  “Get your head out of the 2000s and back in the proper century, alright?  Your type always romanticizes the past so you can scowl about the present…”

Lovino deflated but shrugged.  “Oi, just let me do this.  You said I could have a project of my own.  Deliver on your promise, already.”

Marcia waved her hand.  “Yeah, yeah, hop to it.  I’ll have a couple guys help you clean up, so long as you can secure the pieces you want for the exhibit and set it up yourself.  Lord knows I’m too busy for trifling matters.”

Lovino scowled at the ground as she whisked up the stairs.  The click of her heels rang finality across the floors.

II

 _A premium on space, huh_ , Lovino thought, shoving his phone into his pocket so he could better grapple with his coffee as he walked down the street.  He took a sip, but the liquid scalded his tongue.  Still, he urged it down.

Coffee was meant to be enjoyed at café tables spilling out over the sidewalk, not hurried and in a tasteless paper cup.  It was one thing that Lovino would never appreciate, though the lack of places to sit that weren’t crammed indoors under blaring white lights made it impossible for him to sit and relax.  Scowling, he shoved through the crowd.  It was like a game of duck and weave, coffee sloshing dangerously, even contained by the lid.  His shoulder bag swung and slapped his thigh the faster he rushed.

What Marcia said wasn’t far from the truth.  Rome, Italy had seeped outward, building by building, until it had swallowed up the countryside.  An ordinance halted its expanding borders, but the city sprawled out like a felled beast, a historic, crumbling amalgam of ancient alleyways and winding streets cowering within a ring of metallic, reflective skyscrapers.  When that did not satisfy the growing population, they continued to build upwards, until one developer pushed forward to create a second story—a glass road halfway up the shortest of the skyscrapers—a second street where buildings extended both upwards and down.

The Horizon, they called it.  Lovino only scoffed, scuffing his shoe across the material.  As caked with mud and dirt as it was, seeing down into the darkness that contained the crumbling, abandoned streets of Rome—houses and fountains still intact—was like staring through murky water.  A museum within a city, empty and buried under layers, like something shoved into storage to collect dust.  If anything, it reminded Lovino of Hisarlik, a city built on the ruins of layers of fallen cities.

“How fucking annoying,” he muttered, squeezing toward the wall to one building and pushing through inward swinging doors.

It spit him out into a lobby, furnished with lavish ivory couches and polished black floors.  A fountain dominated the center.

“This is overkill…” He was hyperaware of the tap of his shoes across the marble, oddly grateful for the scuff of carpet in the elevator.  Twiddling his thumbs, he waited as the numbers flashed upward, until the doors slid open and he stepped into what amounted to a giant window-seat nestled in the corner of the building, overlooking the city sprawling below.  He only scoffed and turned away.  An endless expanse of mirrored skyscrapers had a place in New York City, but never his precious Rome.

“And if we go as far as South Italy—“

A prickle of _something_ grazed Lovino’s spine, and with a chill he whirled around.  The elevator doors were so silent that he hadn’t realized two men had entered.  They took their seats on the rounded couches, facing away from the window, one dressed casually and the other wearing a suit and tie.

“Ah, Lovino—“  the formally dressed man rose again to shake his hand.  His grip was firm, his smile gentle.  “I didn’t realize that you would be so early.”

“I came to secure the last few pieces for my exhibit.  I understand that you would loan them to me for three weeks,” he said.  “Francis Bonnefoy.”

Francis chuckled and waved his hand.  Elegant fingers flashed with gold rings, then teased through shoulder-length blonde hair, which he secured with a rubber band at the nape of his neck.  “Well, they were collecting dust before.  I’d be happy to loan for as long as needed.”

Eyes narrowing, Lovino bristled.  “For what price?”

“Between old friends?  I wouldn’t require a cent.  I know you of all people understand how to treat a painting, so I have no worries.”  He chuckled again.  “I included The Mona Lisa.  Back to its country of origin, I suppose, however temporarily.”

Lovino nodded quietly, and finally stared out over the city, eyes distant.

He hardly noticed Francis clapping a gentle hand over his shoulder.

III

No amount of scrubbing could remove the paint streaked across Lovino’s cheeks, and several nights of sleep still did not smooth the circles cutting beneath his eyes.  Still, he surveyed his work with satisfaction, sagging against the staircase railing.  The walls were now a crisp white standing out against mahogany baseboard and simple black frames.  Spotlights pooled warmth across the face of faded paintings, most in miraculously good condition for centuries of storage, the colours bright and brushstrokes still precise.  He felt his body relax with a long exhale, contentment seeping through him at the familiar images.  The room itself was small, but the paintings commanded their own presence.

“Fucking finally,” he said, skipping up the stairs into an exhibition hall to place the sign on the wall.

As early as it was, only a few people wandered this deep in the bowels of the museum, descended several floors below The Horizon.  Lovino treated it like sediment layers.  The deeper you cut into the building, floor by floor, the older the art—with newer modern sculptures made fluid even in polished rock snaking across the lobby, to digital images and photography, to modern paintings and sculpture, and artwork dating even as far back as the late 1900’s.  Most pieces before then had become too worn or faded or tattered for display—or were snatched up by collectors when the museums ran out of storage.  Anything earlier than 2500 was already considered antique, and Marcia’s words rang true:  there was a premium on space.

When Lovino retreated back into his haven, a flutter of movement near the corner caught his eye—a patron who must have slipped in when Lovino’s back was turned.  He tensed, but stalked to one of several benches cutting through the center of the narrow room, and sat, looking pointedly away from the guest, as if he were engaged by the streaks of wheat slashed beneath crow-infested skies of a Van Gogh painting.

Still, he strained his ear for any reaction.  A sideways glance revealed little about the patron—just a shock of white hair nestled beneath a black beanie and a frame dwarfed by an overcoat.

His shoes tapped gently as he wandered the periphery.

Lovino shuffled a little.

The stranger turned, glanced at him, looked away, and glanced again.  “South Italy?”

That same tremor of _something_ seized Lovino, and he threw himself to his feet, glancing around for context.

The stranger was staring straight at him.  “Oh my god,” he said.

Lovino swallowed.  “Pr…ussia?”  Yes, that sounded right.  Felt right.  Squinting, he let scorn flood his voice.  “The hell are you doing here?”  Definitely right.

A grin spread across Prussia’s face.  He stepped over, both brows raised.  “It’s a museum.  You saying I can’t walk into a museum any time I want?”

Recognition clicked the memories into place as hazel eyes met red ones.  “Didn’t know you were even still alive.”

“Fucking rude,” Gilbert said.  “Of course I’m still alive.  Maybe I can say the same for _you_ then, huh?  The minute the personifications step out of the political sphere and suddenly there’s radio silence from literally everybody except Ludwig for the next 500 years?”

Lovino swallowed.  “The humans decided they didn’t need us; there was no point in having world meetings or anything like that anymore.  The hell was I supposed to do?  Invite you all over for a potluck?”

“I don’t know, would have been nice.”

“Being a nation was the only thing that bound us all together,” Lovino mumbled.  “We all went our separate ways when we were relieved of our duties.”

“Relieved of your civic duties,” Gilbert said pointedly, “But none of us will ever stop _being_ the nations…just saying a Christmas card or a phone call or something would have been nice.  We were best friends, Lovino.”

Lovino only scoffed.  “We’re just relics now.”  Then, arms crossed, he frowned. “You still didn’t answer my question.  The hell are you doing here?”

“I’m on leave,” Gilbert said.

“…Leave?”

“Military,” Gilbert said.  “Been joining and rejoining to pass the time.  I see you got yourself a day job or some shit.”  His low whistle echoed through the room.  “You put all this together?”

Lovino nodded.  “Was feeling nostalgic, I guess…”  He brought a hand to his head, then rubbed circles into his temples.  He snickered a little.  “If I had known the likes of you was going to show up, I would have gotten ‘The Potato Eaters’ from Francis too.”

“Did you just try to insult me with an art pun?”

Lovino scoffed.

Gilbert was silent again.  He also stared at the Van Gogh painting across from Lovino, skimming the diverging paths and the bold brush strokes.  He mouthed the words on the plaque next to it.  “Wheat Field with Crows.” 

“This is so weird,” Lovino said.  The words seemed so out of place in the silence.  A heaviness weighed on his heart.  Awkward seconds crept by.

“You forgot about me,” Gilbert finally said.  “You forgot about all of us.”

“W-wha?”

“On purpose?” Gilbert asked.  The bench scraped back as he sank into it.  He patted it for Lovino to sit as well.

Lovino obliged but shrugged, grumbling before giving an answer.  “I don’t like thinking about the past,” he said.  “Remembering who and what I used to be.  Not even just the bad shit and the wars and everything I’ve had to endure, but even the good.  Shit changes, Gil, you of all people would know that.  And you can’t just wish it back to the way it was.”  A bitter laugh clawed its way from his throat, but he shook his head.  “It’s okay though.  Every half century or so I convince myself that I’m a new person, fall into some new routine under a new identity—live life on the human side of things.  I’m no longer bound by my duties…I can finally actually just _live_ for once.”

“You always did want to do things your own way, even as a kid,” Gilbert mused.

Lovino felt an odd smile nudge the corner of his lips.  “I’m happy now.  Sure, being immortal sucks, but I finally can be Lovino instead of South Italy all the time.”  He licked his lips.  “Of course I’ll always love this land, love the people…no political title will change that, but damn if it isn’t good to be allowed to make mistakes and cause trouble for once.”

Gilbert felt his breath catch in his throat.  He nodded.  “I get it,” he said with a smile to match Lovino’s, though his was tinged with sadness.  “Maybe I’m not so keen on forgetting the glory days, but I get it.”  His sigh was loud in the stillness.  “You know, this is the first time I’ve been to Italy probably since I knew you as South Italy.  Back when we were close.”

“I’ll always be South Italy, you dumbass.”

“It really has changed.”

Lovino scoffed.  “Yeah.”

“You miss it?  Old Rome, I mean.”

Lovino shrugged.  “Did some snooping and figured out how to make the elevators go to restricted floors to the base level.  Sometimes I still wander the streets down there.  It’s not really the same without the chatter and bustle—and it’s kind of like staring up through a film of fucking water to see the sun…but it’s _Rome_.”

That grin widened, and Gilbert’s hand clapped over Lovino’s, squeezing when he did not wrench away.  “Okay, well, I’m on leave for a few more days, so, how about we take a walk together, yeah?”  He laughed harshly to himself.  “Like the old times, when we were friends.  Catch up and shit for a little while.”

  
Lovino’s breath caught in his throat.  He swallowed, brow knit. “Why the hell would you want to do something like that?”

 Gilbert caught Lovino’s eyes with an intense stare.  “This is going to sound fucking corny, but they’re the memories I always treasured the most.  So humour me.”

Lovino tensed, but then his shoulders fell limp as his head found that familiar spot on Gilbert’s shoulder.  Yes, this was right.  “O-okay. Fine.  But after my shift is over.”


End file.
